


The Single Hair Which Suspends The Sword

by murakistags



Series: Introspection [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Ancient History, Emotional Manipulation, Hallucinations, Literary References & Allusions, Season/Series 02, Symbolism, The Sword of Damocles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:43:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5836561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murakistags/pseuds/murakistags
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suspended above Hannibal's head is precisely where Abigail can see a large, pointed sword reminiscent of a cross, decorated with rich silver and gold and diamond, elegant as he is. It very nearly plummets to impale him, and Abigail thrusts herself in the midst of it instead. Hannibal was always the King Dionysius of ultimate rule, and Abigail merely the low consort Damocles. She could easily be swept up by the promise of wealth, but she could never adapt to the power which that hovering blade bestows upon her…and so this sacrifice is her only reward.</p><p>[[Very largely a reference to the Ancient Greek tale of King Dionysius and "The Sword of Damocles." Mid-Season 02. Symbolism, painful symbolism everywhere if you squint.]]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Single Hair Which Suspends The Sword

Fingertips grazing the neat sepia pages of a novel, Abigail finds herself lost in an inner peace unlike any other. The base of her spine throbs in protest to the many hours she's remained in a position unyielding, sitting Indian-style upon the rug of Hannibal's grandiose study. The study is branched from the upper hallway of the lovely home of the surgeon-turned-psychiatrist, a place of strange warmth and comfort that Abigail had immediately gravitated towards when they'd returned after the scene of fear gripping her lungs, a staged death, and many of her tears. She can't exactly explain why she felt so at-home in a place so thoroughly foreign and not an inkling connected to her personality. From the expensive wood desk to the volumes lining the shelves, to rich golden accents in every corner…all of it is indicative of a life far more wealthy and neat than Abigail could've ever dreamed of. Hannibal Lecter had welcomed her into his world, and as such this was to also be her own way of living, but she highly doubted she would ever become accustomed. Fear had died away after a meal or two, hugs and embraces, comforting whispers to quell her screams in the night. But the feeling of being unsettled, unable to unfurl her wings fully, had been impossible to banish. Those very feelings eat away at her bones until she finds herself right back in the study again. There, she can effectively lose track of herself. And with or without Hannibal, it feels as though she has all the time in the world to spend. Being dead allows one that luxury.

This afternoon, and all of it, Abigail had seated herself just a short distance from the leg of Hannibal's desk. The office chair, she felt at times, was not meant for her. It was a throne of sorts for the doctor alone, and though he's firmly lifted her small body with ease from the ground many a time to seat her in the chair– "I'll not have you developing kyphosis on my watch," he'd told her in a semi-joking manner–, Abigail inevitably always found herself sitting upon the rug again. (This prompted Abigail the very next day, while the man was seeing patients out of the house and elsewhere at his office, to search the shelves for a medical dictionary. 'Kyphosis'– a forward rounding of the spine, particularly of the thoracic vertebrae. She'd learned something new, mentally related it to some alienated belltower keep from one Disney movie or the other that she'd seen in her younger days, and then tucked the book very neatly back into place upon the daunting shelf.) Perhaps she likes that pain in her spine while she reads, as it keeps her grounded in the present and no other moment than that. It's a blessing but a curse, much like everything in her life now.

This evening, as she obediently awaits the return of her father, the older teenage girl sits there in his study still, head filled with such imagery that it's as intoxicating as music or a television show or movie. Even more intoxicating, for without having to press pause or rewind, her bright blue eyes can skim the same sentence again and again, forming into her own mind, her own memory palace, the portrayal of these characters. This time, the scene to be set from the pages is lovely and large, a delusion of grandeur through and through. In the confines of her mind, Abigail can see the space morph into the scaling walls of Dr. Hannibal Lecter's office of psychiatry. All of it is complete: the balcony of bookshelves filled to the brim, a crackling fireplace, sloping windows with lovely curtains, the décor of stag head, Hippocrates bust, all of the like about two chairs in the very center of the room, one facing the other as if two invisible spectres have engaged in polite conversation.

She reads along, and once more the scene in her head morphs. That palace of an office becomes filled with life, shaded in by the very scalpel-sharpened lead pencil with which Hannibal is so deft. Abigail herself has taken a seat at the office desk, her line of sight directly perpendicular to that between Hannibal and Will facing one another in the two plush chairs reserved for therapy sessions. It feels like a dream, but it feels so very real and tangible. She can feel the wood of the desk beneath her fingertips, and she can see the two men sitting back, both with legs crossed, and talking to one another with grave expressions. Between them, she can see that there is nothing withheld, nor is there anything overtly exposed. It's a delicate waltz for them two alone, and she impinges on the moment as an eavesdropper, a spy. No…though, she cannot hear the speech, and both men seated there seem to pay her no mind. The thought reaches her mind that she has truly died and departed from this world and into something else, something far more horrifying than life itself. It shakes her to the core.

But nothing, nothing is more fear-inducing in the mind of this young Abigail Hobbs than when she turns her keen gaze higher above the men, a sight to behold assaults her vision. Above Hannibal's head, as he continues to converse casually and unaware in the slightest, is suspended a sword. The decorated silver and gold blade is double-edged and sharp, pointed only at the very end. The hilt is ornate and weaving with designs of diamond and precious metals, creating a pattern arabesque and puzzling out to the left and right like the arms of a cross. The sword is large and thick, at least half of his height and then some, just levitating there in midair about a metre and a half above, waiting to fall down upon his head and impale him upon that polished blade. A closer stare of eyes wide and unyielding in fear shows the glint of a thread, a single strand of thin and glimmering horsehair as smooth as silk, affixing that dangling sword to the ceiling above. There is strangely nothing above the head of Will Graham.

The Sword of Damocles.

Oh, how precious it looks! The blade of that elaborately-crafted sword shines in the sunlight from the window, and it reflect Will's expression across from Hannibal, an expression so calm and collected and sweet but troubled beneath the surface. It is as precious as it is a poison! The sword, reserved for those in positions of unspeakable power, represents the befitting plight of it all on the other side of the same coin. What can be a blessing of power and wealth, is very much a curse the same, and now it has become frighteningly tangible for the psychiatrist now unaware of it looming above him like a ticking clock.

Heavy thudding of a black stag stalking in the distance threatens to shake the blade free of that single strand of hair, threatens to send it falling right into the midline of Hannibal's slick hair and brilliant head, to end his life in a manner most dramatic.

The sweet potency of epinephrine hits Abigail's bloodstream exceedingly suddenly, flooding her body with an unmatched sympathetic response. It dilates her pupils to saucers, tenses every muscle with an unbidden energy, and quickens her heart rate until the echo matches that of the heavy thudding of stag hooves in the back of her mind. She wants to reach out and scream, run and push Hannibal out of harm's way before that perilously thin thread will snap and leave a scene obscenely grizzly and gruesome. She wants to save him– but first she must help herself. Fear twisting her gut into a mess, like a fist reached in and grasped her stomach harshly, Abigail can barely move. She is tense, but when her chin begins to tilt backwards, she feels so sick all of a sudden that she wishes she could stop. She wishes she didn't have to look, but she cannot cease the movement now. So when Abigail's own head is tilted back from where she is seated at the desk, directly in her line of sight comes a glimmering steel thick and unforgiving as the one above Hannibal's head. Every moment of her heart shaking in her chest and staring up at the blade hanging just above her own head, is one more writhe of it there. The single strand of hair buckles and sways under the stag's heavy-footed locomotion, the twangs of her heartbeat sending shockwaves through her own body…it will not last. No, she can see the thread begin to fray and snap, and yet she cannot move.

Still and horrified, Abigail stares her own death in the face. The Sword of Damocles will fall upon her now, for like Damocles himself she cannot withstand the responsibility of bearing it all, the position she's been placed into. She hadn't adapted, and this is her reward.

As the Sword begins to fall above her, Abigail breaks free of her spell and lowers her head and gaze, everything moving horribly in slow-motion just then. Like a black and white film, it moves very slowly and blearily, stuck in a haze. As she looks back to the two men seated there, she is surprised to find that both of their gazes are now directly upon her. Her, they look right at her! But their stares are not horrified, and they make no move to help her! Why, why, why do they not rush forward and steal her away from the blade falling down to her skull from above?!

Both gazes are lucid but suave and smooth, unmoving and emotionless, just hollow stares at her. Hannibal's eyes are more forgiving, however, up until that very second when they aren't.

That sword above his head dangles still, but it's as if the release of her own thread has caused the tightening of his. His blade remains remarkably stable now, thread taut but firm and unmoving, and that very same sense of conquering shines across those maroon eyes clearly. A curl at the corner of his lips leaves her stomach in a nauseous mess. Hannibal was always the King Dionysius, power and wealth bequeathed to a blade which he could very well withstand with ease. But Abigail, she was always the consort Damocles, frightened immediately of such power and wealth, just as much as she had always been fascinated by it. In the end, one was strong and the other was not, and thus the blade plummets. It pierces her through and yet she does not scream. Hannibal still upholds himself, and in the end she supposes that's all that matters. It was never about her, anyway.

The book in Abigail's hand suddenly finds its spine roughly slammed against the wooden floor of the study. She'd thrown it forcefully without a second thought, as she was wrenched from that nightmare of Ancient Greece replicated in her hands. The top of her head feels as though it throbs like her protesting back, and her hands are trembling with a force unlike any other she's experienced before. Breathing is shallow and uneven, and she has to take many deep breaths in the solitude of the room to regain some semblance of self. Never had she so quickly replaced a volume upon the shelf and fled from that office. She has to flee, or the sword will come down on her head as well. But the love, the power, the wealth, someone must balance it all. Is she not the perfect charge to sit in the throne when the strand of hair is at its very thinnest? To take and beat the brunt of the sins of them both? Abigail would do that, yes. It's a twisted love, manipulative as the very way she is caged inside the walls of Hannibal Lecter's home, but it is something she's never had. So she grasps at that remarkably golden opportunity, even with all of the danger it offers to her. For Hannibal is the King, and he will survive past all. But Abigail will survive too, for she is reflected in the Sword of Damocles. She is the blade.

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't something ever intended to be published. It was written as part of an introspective look at Abigail for a Twitter roleplay of mine. However, by the time I put on the finishing touches, I was quite proud of how this turned out. And now, here we are. 
> 
> The tale of The Sword of Damocles is a little obscure and skewed in this rendition…or so it seems. But the intention is very much clear: delineating a clear distinction between Hannibal and his strength, and how Abigail is moulded along by it, both as a consort to it but also sadly a sacrifice to it. A double-edged sword, as always, when it comes to her placing her life in Hannibal's hands. That isn't, in my opinion, necessarily a bad thing…but I digress. I have too many feelings for Abigail.
> 
> Hope it was as enjoyable to read as it was for me to write.
> 
> If you liked it, don't forget to leave kudos and comments. They inspire me and make me smile.
> 
> Please consider [buying me a coffee for a fic](https://ko-fi.com/murakistags)!


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